Peter Pan No More
by himynameisyoli
Summary: Carl Grimes reflects on what it means to grow up in a world without protection.


Even in her final moment, my mother tried to protect me. Sometimes I tell myself I am imagining it all: her eyes opening, only slightly. She breathes and it is shallow, like whispers on the wind. "Carl? Baby, is that you?" I can barely hear her. I lean in close.

"Yes mom, it's me."

Her lips stretch into some thin line that is supposed to resemble a smile. "I told you to be brave, baby. I told you I was proud" and then she closed her eyes again, and I knew.

I shot her.

I shot my mother between her eyes just as I heard the baby cry. I opened the door and looked from the baby to Maggie. Maggie's eyes were big—bigger than I'd ever seen them—somewhere between fear and awe. I didn't say anything to her; I simply walked in front of her and the baby, my gun pointed outward.

I awake with a start, dreaming of my mother's eyes the last moment she looked at me. When she was alive, before I killed her. I take deep breaths, barely taking the time to marvel at how wonderful it is that I am alive to have deep breaths to take. I look at the ceiling; there is the slow sound of water dripping from the ceiling. It started that morning, and I made a mental note to patch it. I didn't bother to alert my father, he wouldn't notice, and he can barely manage to put his plans to keep all of us alive into action. Trusting him with fixing a ceiling leak would be too much.

As if on instinct, I look over to my right. My father insists on sleeping closest to the opening of the cell on our prison cot. He still thinks he can protect me better than I can protect myself, or him. His mouth is slightly open as he sleeps, his eyes closed tight. I try to think back to the time before, when I would sneak into my parents' bedroom after a bad dream. I don't think my father ever slept like that, mouth slightly agape as if he is on the verge or crying out in his sleep, eyes forced shut because sleep is not something he likes to do. It's not something any of us like to do. It is a part of our nature we try to fight. Not because of the walkers, but because of the terrors that live in our conscience, the things we can fight while awake but invade whilst we sleep.

I have the sudden urge to go visit my little sister, Judith. My father wanted her to sleep in the cell with us, but I thought it was a good idea she sleep in the nursery with the other kids, and Beth and Carol. I grab my gun from under my pillow and slowly feel my way out of the cot. It is dark, cold, and damp as I make my way down the hallway, but it is home. I know this place like the back of my hand, maybe even better than all of those intrinsic lines, and that gives me comfort.

The nursery is the brightest cell in the entire prison. It is the one that gets the most light day and night, because it faces the sun and the moon. Beth was the one who noticed it, when the others came, and we had to rearrange once again. Beth thought it'd be a good idea for the kids to be surrounded by light, to know that there is beauty in the world, and not everything is dark, cold, damp, and scary. I think it was a good idea, but I don't tell her that. I'm not sure I know how, anymore.

Everyone is asleep. The nursery houses all of the kids from ages 3 years to 12 years. Judith is the only baby in the nursery and the other kids stare at her in wonder. Beth is asleep next to Judith's crib in the rocking chair Michonne found one day while scavenging. It's made of oak and amazing condition. I try not to think about whom it belonged to, although I know that they are all dead.

"Hey" I hear Beth's soft voice and look up. She is smiling at me, "what are you doing up this late? Couldn't sleep?"

I shake my head. "I just wanted to see Judith."

Beth smiles again, "oh, yeah. She's beautiful, isn't she? Growing bigger everyday."

I nod, not sure what to say. I'm not good with these kind, emotional ways of describing things, and it is all I can think to do.

Beth doesn't seem to notice, and she keeps talking in that soft whisper that is an octave barely below her usual speaking voice. "It was so kind of your daddy to do this for you, Carl. He loves you so much."

I continue to look at her, and I can hear my stare hardening as I do so. "Nice of my dad to move a bunch of strangers in when we can barely defend ourselves? Or make decisions that are more likely to lead to our deaths for some greater good that doesn't even exist anymore? Yeah, he loves me a lot."

Judith stirs and Beth and I both look over at her. She gives a little sigh and cuddles back into herself. "That's not true Carl and deep down somewhere you know it."

I don't answer. I think of all of the kids in this nursery. "You know, this place was setup a couple of weeks after I turned thirteen. But even if I was younger, I don't think I'd get placed in here. These kids are in a _nursery_, Beth. They're being…coddled and treated like kids, and they're not. They're not. No one is a child in this world. If there was an attack right now, they'd cry and run frantically around looking for some adult, not sure of what it means to defend themselves."

Beth looks over at Judith lovingly. "I think that's a good thing. I think kids should get to stay kids as long as they can, especially in this world."

"Well, I didn't" is my only response, as I grow frustrated with Beth's unrealistic responses.

"And you don't think your daddy regrets that?" Her voice is higher, but still soft. "He's doing this all for you. Everything. These kids, these people, this prison."

"What are you talking about?" I ask, confused.

Beth shakes her head gently, and then she looks up at me, smirking. "Do you think the others expect us to get married?"

"_What_?" I ask.

"I mean, I know I'm a few years older than you, but in this world…well, like you said, we're not really kids anymore. A few years aren't the ocean they used to be."

"I don't think anyone expects us to do anything but survive. I don't think people really sit around and think about those kind of things anymore, Beth."

Again, it's as if she didn't hear me. "Personally, I don't think it'd work. My father's afraid of you. Not like in the way he was afraid of Glenn, that kind of fatherly fear that there was now a capable man in Maggie's life to come and love her and take care of her in a way he couldn't. But in a different way…my father's afraid _for_ you."

I look at her, curious now, "what do you mean, "afraid for me"?"

She hears me and engages this time, "afraid for your soul."

Neither of us speaks for some time after that. We both stare at Judith, and I almost want to pick her up and hold her. See her open her eyes groggily, about to cry, and then register that it's me, and smile. Laugh. Love.

"It's too late for me" I say quietly. Beth doesn't say anything, but I know she's listening. "I don't…I don't think I can pretend this hasn't happened. I don't think I can go back to…wanting to play and believing that my dad is some big hero who can protect me from anything. But it's not too late for her. These kids, this nursery, you…she can know what it means to be surrounded by love. We can protect her."

Beth looks at me, and her smile is profoundly sad but there is an overtone of hope. "That says everything, Carl."

She sighs deeply and inclines her head toward Judith, as if to say goodnight. I don't move to question her. I gently lean over Judith's crib and kiss her tiny forehead. "I love you" I say, hoping Beth can't hear.

I quietly feel my way back to my cell. I lock myself inside and look over at my father. He is still asleep. I feel a kind of reverent regard I haven't felt for him in a long while, since before we left the farm. So many of my thoughts toward him have been consumed with anger and blame. Blame for all the death that results from ever decision her didn't make, blame for mom not being here, and blame because I had to kill her. But looking at him now, still trying to protect me, believing that there is hope for me yet, I don't blame him at all. I want to shake him awake and thank him, even though I know he'll have no idea what I mean, and that he'll want to talk, and then I'll be angry again.

Instead I crawl into bed next to him and look at the ceiling, willing my eyes closed and for a dream of my mother's smile.


End file.
